The Death List

by J. R. Roberts

She frowned.

  “Wendy?”

  “The girl who came to me this morning.”

  “I didn’t send you a girl this morning, Talbot,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “This is upsetting. Is some girl trying to pass herself off as being represented by me?”

  “Maybe I misunderstood,” Roper said. “I’ll talk to her and get back to you.”

  “Yes, please do,” she said, “but meanwhile, do you need someone?”

  “Not right now, Mrs. Batchelder,” he said, “but as soon as I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” she said. “I have several girls who would be a wonderful fit for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint and Roper left the building and stopped just outside.

  “This is odd,” Roper said.

  “If she was sent by my killer,” Clint said, “then he already knows that I contacted you. He’ll be on his way to his next target—whoever it is.”

  “Let’s have some dinner,” Roper said, “and map out a strategy to try to save those other six people.”

  “Suits me.”

  “Then we can figure out a way to find out who this killer is.”

  Roper took Clint to a restaurant he had recently discovered that specialized in steaks. Over two wonderful meals they discussed who they each knew in the next six locations on the list—Minnesota (Grand View), Missouri (Saint Louis), Arizona (Steadfast), South Dakota (White Bluffs), Idaho (Sayerville), and the last one—the woman—in San Francisco.

  Roper decided he knew someone he could send to Minnesota, South Dakota, and Idaho. Clint figured he could get someone like Bat Masterson or Luke Short to go to Arizona and Missouri.

  “What about San Francisco?” Roper asked over dessert.

  “I’m going to San Francisco myself,” Clint said. “It’s unusual that the last name on the list is a woman. I’m thinking maybe she’ll know something helpful about this killer’s motives.”

  “Where would you like me to start?” Roper asked.

  “Maybe you could just investigate the murder of Daniel Dolan here in Denver,” Clint said. “You might be able to find out something helpful.”

  “I can do that,” Roper said.

  “We can both send telegrams tomorrow morning,” Clint said. “By midday maybe we can have five of the others covered. I’ll get a train to San Francisco tomorrow evening.”

  “Hopefully, your guy didn’t go straight there,” Roper said.

  “Good point,” Clint said. “I wish I could send this woman a telegram—or rather have you send one—but all we have is her name and San Francisco.”

  “If the shooter today was him—or sent by him—or if he sent the girl to me, then it doesn’t matter who sends the telegram, you or me.”

  “You’re right.” Clint left his pie half-eaten and sat back. “I suppose I mishandled this whole thing. Four men are dead, and maybe I could have prevented it.”

  “You certainly could not have prevented that first man from being killed,” Roper said. “And you probably did what I would have done.”

  “I doubt it,” Clint said. “You would have come up with a viable alternative after the second killing. So maybe I’m only responsible for the last two deaths—and the next few.”

  “The person responsible is your killer,” Roper said, “and we’re going to do whatever we have to do to identify and catch him.”

  “Thanks, Tal,” Clint said. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Hey,” Roper said, “somebody took a shot at me. That’s not the kind of thing I take lightly.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  They stopped outside the restaurant and shook hands.

  “I’ll be at your hotel by noon tomorrow,” Roper said. “We can compare notes.”

  Roper had copied the list of names and had that in his pocket. He’d marked off the ones he was supposed to be pursuing. He patted his pocket.

  “By then we should have these folks covered.”

  “I hope so,” Clint said. “I hope we can keep another one from being killed.”

  “I doubt your man could been in Minnesota yet, even if he caught the train last night. We should be able to do this.”

  “Again, I appreciate your help,” Clint said. “Just watch your back, in case the mysterious girl and the shooting today are not connected with my killer.”

  “If somebody from my past chose today to take a run at me, it would be a hell of a coincidence,” Roper said.

  And Clint knew that Talbot Roper was no more a believer in coincidence than he was.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint returned to the Denver House Hotel, locked the door of his room behind him, and then stuck a chair back beneath the doorknob. If someone had tried to shoot Roper, what would keep them from coming after him?

  He took off his jacket and his boots, poured himself a drink from the decanter of brandy the hotel always provided for their regular guests.

  He sat in a comfortable armchair and considered the events of the day. Since neither he nor Roper believed in coincidence, the shot taken at Roper had to be connected to the death list. But considering that the killer was a proven back shooter, what was the point of taking a shot at Roper on the street that way? Why not wait until Roper was fitting the key into his office door, his back turned to the street. That would have been a much easier shot to take.

  Could the shot have simply been a warning, to both Roper and Clint?

  Whatever the reason, Clint was now committed to this course of action. Try to save the lives of as many of the remaining six people as possible.

  He’d rise early in the morning and send his telegrams, and would hopefully get quick responses. If not, he’d have to hope for a response in San Francisco by the time he arrived there.

  He finished his drink and then went into the bedroom part of his suite to get more comfortable.

  Talbot Roper returned to his office after dinner with Clint, rather than going home. He stopped first at the reception desk, sat there for a few moments thinking, then went through some drawers. After that he rose and walked into his office, sat at his own desk. The girl had undoubtedly done some filing while she was there, but who was to say she didn’t just dump the files into one drawer, just so it would look as if she’d filed them?

  Roper checked the cabinets. He remembered the names on some of the files, and found them to have been inserted in the proper places.

  She had come to his office, done his filing, greeted Clint, and then left. So once Clint had arrived, was that all she wanted to know? Did she run back to her master with that information? And had that resulted in the shot being taken at him?

  Why a shot at him?

  Why not shoot at Clint?

  Was it a warning?

  If so, if it was meant as a warning, Talbot Roper did not respond to warnings.

  Not favorably anyway.

  * * *

  Roper knew of a place where he could send telegrams, even at a late time. As he prepared to leave his office, though, he decided not to use the front door. He had another exit, one that nobody else knew about. It was a stairway that took him down to a tunnel, beneath several buildings, and came out on another street entirely.

  He went to the hidden door, which was behind a bookcase. He could tell that the bookcase had not been recently moved, so Wendy—whoever she was—had not found this secret exit.

  He opened the door, went down the stairs and along the tunnel, using a candle to light the way. It was damp, and he could hear his own footsteps echoing. When he came to the door at the end, he extinguished the candle and put it aside, so it would be available if he had to come back in this way.

  Although he was certain no one knew about this door, he opened it slowly, and stepped out carefully. It was dark out, and with no light behind him, he should be totally hidden from sight. Even if someone was across the street with the rifle, it would not be an easy shot.

  He closed the door, then asce
nded the three steps to the street level.

  He paused, looked both ways and across the street before he started walking down the street, fairly certain that he was not in anyone’s crosshairs.

  Roper knew many private detectives—or private “agents,” since they were not all licensed—across the country, and meant to call on the ones he knew he could depend on the most. Also, the ones who were geographically located so that they could get to Minnesota, South Dakota, and Idaho as quickly as possible.

  He had a friend who would give him access to a private telegraph key, so that he could get his messages off tonight. The sooner he could get in touch with those agents, the better.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint awoke the next morning and went down to talk to the hotel manager. He knew that the hotel had a telegraph key they made available to certain guests—mostly businessmen. But Clint was enough of a regular guest that he felt sure they’d let him use it.

  “Of course, sir,” the manager said in his office. He hurriedly got up from behind his desk. “Please, follow me.”

  Clint did so, following the smaller man down a long hallway to a small room with a man sitting at a desk.

  “This is our key operator, Jimmy,” he said, and the older man got to his feet. “Jimmy, this is Mr. Clint Adams. He has some emergency telegrams he’d like sent.”

  “Adams,” Jimmy said. “Oh, yes, of course, sir. You can write them out here…”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll leave you in Jimmy’s hands,” the manager said.

  “That’s fine,” Clint said.

  As the manager left, Jimmy asked, “Um, how many telegrams will you be sendin’?”

  “I’m not sure,” Clint said. “That depends on how quickly I get a reply—or not. Let’s get started.”

  Clint ended up sending half a dozen telegrams before he finally got a reply from Bat Masterson.

  “Bat Masterson!” Jimmy said, handing him the reply. “Geez.”

  Masterson said he could make the ride to Saint Louis and check on a man there named Micah Wallace. He said he’d telegraph Clint in San Francisco when he knew something.

  “Okay,” Clint said to Jimmy, “thanks.”

  “What about your other ones?” Jimmy asked. “The ones you sent to Luke Short?”

  “Well, hopefully I’ll get a reply from him while I’m in San Francisco.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  Clint slapped the older man on the back and said, “Thank you, Jimmy.”

  “You leavin’ Denver now?”

  “First train I can get,” Clint said.

  “Have a nice trip.”

  Clint gave the man a little salute and headed for the lobby, where, at noon, he expected to meet Talbot Roper.

  Roper got to the Denver House early, took up position in the lobby so that he’d be able to see Clint as soon as he came down the stairs, and vice versa.

  “You’re early,” Clint said, coming up behind him.

  Roper turned quickly and asked, “Where did you come from?”

  “Hotel has its own telegraph key,” Clint said. “I was using it. How about you?”

  “I have a friend with access to a key,” Roper said. “I got it all done last night.”

  “Well, I’ve got Bat Masterson on his way to Saint Louis,” Clint said.

  “I’ve got men on their way to Minnesota, South Dakota, and Idaho.”

  “Detectives?”

  “One of them is licensed, the other two are just…let’s call them agents. They’re good men. If the people on that list are still alive when my men arrive, they’ll stay alive.”

  “What about Arizona?”

  “I’ve reached out to Luke Short,” Clint said. “Should hear from him soon.”

  “When are you leaving for San Francisco?” Roper asked.

  “I’m checking out now,” Clint said. “I’m going to catch the first train I can.”

  “I’ll go to the station with you to watch your back,” the detective said.

  “And who’s going to watch yours after I leave?” Clint asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Roper said. “I think you should worry more about your back once you’re on the train.”

  Clint thought that his friend was probably right.

  Roper went to his suite with him to pick up his saddlebags and rifle, and then they rode to the station together in a cab.

  “I’ve got one favor to ask you,” Clint said on the way.

  “One favor?”

  “Okay, one more favor,” Clint said. “I’m leaving Eclipse at the Denver House livery. Will you look after him for me?”

  “Definitely,” Roper said. “I know how much that animal means to you. I’ll look in on him daily.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  When they got to the station, Roper walked in with Clint and waited while he checked on trains.

  “There’s one leaving in an hour and forty minutes,” Clint said. “I got a ticket.”

  “I’ll wait with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I’ve got nothing else to do right now,” Roper said. “Besides, I’ll feel better once I know you’re safely on the train.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” Clint asked.

  “Two things,” Roper said. “I’m going to find this girl, Wendy. And I’ll find out as much as I can about the murder of Daniel Dolan.”

  “Okay, keep me informed about all that.”

  “Where are you going to stay?”

  “A friend of mine just opened a hotel near Portsmouth Square called the Lucky Strike. I’ll be staying there.”

  “The Lucky Strike. Got it.”

  Roper walked Clint right onto the train, then stood on the platform while the train pulled away.

  Clint watched his friend fade into the distance, then sat back in his seat. Hopefully, he could relax until he got to San Francisco.

  But in reality, he never relaxed, no matter where he was. That was simply what it meant to be Clint Adams.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Clint was impressed with the Lucky Strike. He knew several people with hotels near Portsmouth Square, the gambling center of San Francisco. This one was brand new, and he could see the money that his friend, Kenny “King” Dirker, had put into it. King Dirker was a great poker player who had decided to stop playing and become the House. He did that because the House never lost. And the Lucky Strike was now his house.

  Clint walked into the impressive lobby and approached the desk. The clerk looked at him with an attitude. He saw a man with saddlebags and a rifle, and no luggage.

  “Sir?” he asked with his nose in the air.

  “Clint Adams,” he said. “You have a room for me.”

  “Do we?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “you do.”

  The clerk took a moment to check his register, then looked surprised and said, “Oh, yes, we do.”

  “I’ll take my key,” Clint said.

  “Sir, we can—”

  “And tell Kenny I’m here.”

  “Kenny?”

  “Yes, your boss, King Dirker.”

  “Um, you know Mr. Dirker?”

  “Yes, I know Mr. Dirker very well. Mr. Dirker is expecting me. Please tell him that I’m here.”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” the clerk said with a changing attitude. “I will let him know.”

  Clint put his hand out for his key. The clerk grabbed it from the wall behind him and placed it in Clint’s palm.

  “Room fifteen, sir,” the clerk said. “One of our best rooms.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint closed his hand around the key, took his rifle and saddlebags, and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  Clint was still being impressed with his suite when there was knock on the door. He opened it, hand on his gun, and saw King Dirker standing in the hall.

  “Clint!”

  Dirker was a big man. He bull-rushed Clint, grabbed him in a bear hug, and lifted hi
m off the floor. “How the hell are ya?”

  “I’d be better if you stopped squeezing the life out of me.”

  Dirker put Clint down and released him.

  “What do you think of the place?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Clint said. “A beautiful place.” He looked around the suite at the plush furniture and draperies. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was smack in the center of Portsmouth Square.”

  “I know! It’s great, isn’t it?” Dirker frowned. “That little weasel at the front desk give you any problems?”

  “No, just a little bit of an attitude.”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna fire his ass sooner or later,” Dirker said. “Problem is the little peckerwood is good at his job.”

  “Well, then, don’t fire him on my account,” Clint said.

  “Look here,” Dirker said, walking to a sidebar, which had several crystal decanters on it. “The good stuff. Whataya have?”

  “I’d rather check out your saloon and have a beer.”

  “You got it!” Dirker said, “Come on, let’s go.”

  They left the suite and went back down to the main floor.

  “Come ’ere a minute,” Dirker said, and pulled Clint over to the front desk.

  The clerk saw his boss coming toward him and straightened his back.

  “Sir!”

  “Listen, you little peckerwood,” Dirker said, “this is Clint Adams, one of my best friends in the world. You give him whatever he wants, you get me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I don’t care what it is.”

  “Yessir.”

  “King, come on—” Clint said.

  “You understand me?” Dirker said to the clerk.

  “Yessir, I do.”

  “Come on, King,” Clint said. “I need a beer.”

  Dirker allowed himself to be drawn away from the desk, then took the lead and marched Clint into the saloon and right up to the bar. The place was all gold and mahogany, and it all shined brightly.

  At the bar Dirker yelled, “Two beers!”

  The bartender took a look, saw his boss, and said, “Comin’ up.”

  Clint looked around. The place was empty, but he was sure the casino was jumping.

  “Come on,” Dirker said, “I keep a table in the back.”